Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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Sneakysnap was going to become a Royal Guard. She didn’t care who she had to get rid of to make it happen — she was utterly unscrupulous, and if an opening had to be made in the current numbers, then she would make an opening. She’d apologise when she was dead — until then, one less Royal Guard was one more possibility for her. She wasn’t the smartest, so there was no thought given to gaining influence the more important way, with the Classes; being a Royal Guard was nothing compared to being a Superior, but one was violent and easy and attainable, one was visible, and close to Kier, and a matter of teeth and claws, and so that was the one she wanted. She knew she’d never make Superior — she wasn’t refined; she wasn’t enough of a suck-up; she wasn’t dainty or graceful or clever: she was just conniving, and thick, and angry. So she’d set her sights on Royal Guard since the time she was a kit, and her attention had never once wavered: she was going to get it. If she had to kill Speedyraptor and Druzyprince, she would do it; if she had to make friends with them, she would do it (she hadn’t quite picked up on Druzyprince’s dislike of her). But the former was the easier option. And if she could somehow get away with killing Oleanderpaw while she was at it, all the better — there was nothing she hated more than a preening, feminine girl, especially one who threatened her own popularity.
And so, that night, she set out with a mission: to do something exceptional. To bring Kier back a body — didn’t matter whose. He’d treated SummerClan like his stomping ground, and she was nothing if not an imitator of those more powerful than her. And so, it was to SummerClan that she went. She was going to kill someone — Ratsneer had gotten to kill someone at a trial; Bumblebeepaw had gotten to kill someone at a trial; and they had both been apprentices. She was a warrior and she still hadn’t made use of her Executioner title. With every passing night, she grew angrier and angrier, and when Sneakysnap grew angry, she grew blindly volatile. She wanted to kill someone; she wanted to drag their body back; she wanted to dump it in front of Kier and stand up straight and say there, sir, make me a Guard. She was going to. They didn’t have families, kits, friends — they were all just fruits to be picked from the tree and squashed under her claws.
When she reached SummerClan, she stalked back and forth along the border, staring in at the moonlit territory with the wide, searching, violent eyes of a leopard. With that same air of silent danger, she spotted her quarry — patches of black cover — and slipped inside the territory markers, skimming across the tussocks of grass with lithe, hateful paws. She vanished into the darkness of the gorse bushes and continued her restless pacing within it, cracking little twigs with the sheer force of her legs as she whipped back and forth, back and forth, hollowing out the inside of the bush without paying any mind to it. All the time, her staring, unblinking eyes searched the rolling hills in front of her. Until, finally, a shadow moved across them. Didn’t matter who — apprentice, kit, medicine cat, leader; didn’t matter if Kier wouldn’t have liked some of them dead; she’d kill any of them nine times over and drag them back to NightClan, never mind her aching neck, never mind her sweat, never mind her pain. Enduring an awful night would only lend her petition that much more weight: if she arrived back at camp scarred and bloody and panting, she’d be a legend.
And so, as the shadow crossed the hills, Sneakysnap opened her mouth in a toothy, gurgling hiss and shot out of the bush—
THWACK.
A tree limb appeared out of nowhere and whipped her in the face, throwing her backwards. She landed on her back, her face stinging, completely bewildered and made all the angrier because of it. “What the hell was that?” she snapped, still lying on her back, as if her would-be victim had intended for it to happen — as if it was a personal affront to her that they had lived for even a minute more.
Monsterpaw was tired of nobody taking him seriously, of being trodden on and overlooked and made to be a laughing stock. He didn't want to be stupid, loud Monstepaw, he wanted to be admirable, strong Monsterpaw, but he wasn't sure how to get there. Everyone already seemed to know what they were doing, everyone already seemed miles ahead, and he was left behind. Again. Listen more, he was told, but nobody ever said anything worth listening too, and he was better doing his own thing anyway — maybe it was good he didn't get along with most of his denmates, then, because if he was going to be the best, he didn't want to feel bad about surpassing them, leaving them for dust instead. But it seemed unachievable, especially when cats like Sunrisepaw and Midnightpaw were born into the favour of the clan because of their powerful families. If he had to hear about Uncle Foxstar one more time, surely he wouldn't be able to keep himself from hitting Sunrisepaw upside the head.
He hadn't set out with a particular plan in mind. He'd simply thought of things that upset him for too long, dug himself into an angry fit that only some fresh air would soothe. Being useful hadn't been on his mind, either, but he hunted anyway — it was something he was actually good at, excelled in, even, something he could find pride in. A nightingale that had previously been pecking at the ground laid between his paws. He sat up, taking the bird into his mouth and shaking it around as if he were a dog with a new chew toy until he flung it against the nearest tree. Truthfully, half of his catches hardly made it to camp at all, always torn apart or picked at or buried somewhere. It was a great way to get his anger out, to rip something apart and leave it, hide it, where ever it was he left them when he was done. Birds and mice worked much better than bugs, he found. Spitting feathers and blood out of his mouth, he moved to peer at the body, sitting just before it.
"It's just — so, stupid, right? Like, what am I even supposed to be doing?" He prodded it roughly with a paw, giving a groan of annoyance at the expected unresponsiveness and stood up again, turning to stock away. The bushes rustled beside him, and he slowed, annoyance fading into confusion, a tinge of fear on his features. His ears twitched. It seemed an opportunity had fluttered into his outstretched paws — a possible intruder (the likelihood of it being another clanmate was high, but who could take any chances), and if he were to deal with them, send them running or bring them to camp for Foxstar to decide what to do with them, then maybe people would start respecting him.
THWACK.
Monsterpaw rushed towards the disturbance, barreling through the bush and attempting to tackle whatever was there, but he only hit empty air, and before he could reorient himself, his paw caught a tough, tangled piece of undergrowth, sending him forward. With a strangled yelp, he landed on something soft, something breathing. He paid no mind to her question, struggling for a moment to get up before he slammed a paw into the base of her neck, closer to her chest, both as a means to haul himself up and to subdue whoever it was that was beneath him. His claws pricked her skin but did not pierce it.
"Who the hell are you?" He hissed, shifting so he was partially leaning on her instead of laying on her. "You stink, so I can tell you aren't from around here. What," he pressed his paw further, "are you doing here?"
"I'm going to KILL you, you idiot," Sneakysnap replied in a hateful, vicious hiss, glaring up into his face. She punctuated it with a brutal kick to his stomach with her hind paw; she was small, all ribs and quick paws, but she was every bit a match for every jock and idiot in NightClan — she wouldn't let herself not be. She was one of them. Throwing him off her, she whipped off her back and reversed their positions a split second later, descending on him like a flock of black crows and pushing her forepaws into his throat. She grinned down at him, wild with a savage violence that was so much more savage than Kier's for its foundation in pure animal instinct, her head tilting wildly and her eyes bright with adrenaline. "I'm 'bouta stink with your brain juice, moron," she hissed down at him, tomboyish and gurgling. She hooked her claws into his neck fur and jerked him up just enough to slam him back down a frantic heartbeat later. "And I'm NightClan." She pressed her face into his, foreheads flush against one another and lips drawn back into a furious, toothy snarl.
And then, suddenly, she sneezed. The sensation was so unexpected and so sudden that, for a moment, she looked genuinely innocent, genuinely bewildered, above him, frowning as the sneeze left. And then another one hit. And another. And another. And another, until she was a sneezing mess. She backed off of him, still sneezing. "Wha—these—these flowers," she gagged in bewilderment, her face scrunched up in frantic, pained displeasure, "you live like this?" She knew she was near helpless and it made her furiously afraid — she wasn't going to be killed in the middle of a sneezing fit.
She was in luck! A second later, still backing away as she sneezed, trying fruitlessly to escape the wildflowers, her back paw slipped off the edge of a narrow abyss, shale and dirt skittering down into black, open air. In high summer, cracks sometimes opened in the dry earth — and after the recent earthquake in SunClan's older territory, a wider, deeper one had been ripped open, safe in the day and apt to be quickly grown over by gorse and tough grass. But now, in the dark, it was just a chasm. Sneakysnap disappeared over the edge before she could stop herself, immediately stopping her sneezing in her flash of terror. Her claws hooked the rough earth just in time and she slid only a little way down before stopping herself. She let out an involuntary wail that turned to a hateful, gurgling growl a second later. Trembling in more rage than fear, she slowly risked a look over her shoulder down at the black abyss below. Sneakysnap made a choked, miserable sort of moaning sound, the sort you make after a sneezing fit when there's snot everywhere and you feel disgusting and helpless. "Well, this sucks," she growled. "You still up there?" she called after another moment, a snarl on her face and the growl still in her voice, her voice reluctant and hatefully accusing and slightly pitiful, like he was a bastard for even being an option of help. Half of her would have rather died, would have rather fallen into the pit, than ask for help — more than half. A Royal Guard didn't need it.
I'm going to KILL you, you idiot. Before he could even look shocked at the confession, before he could even get a word out, a paw struck his stomach and he was pushed away, winded and unable to reposition himself into a defensive position, utterly at the mercy of his assailant. If Sneakysnap was small, Monsterpaw was smaller, baby-faced and scruffy, a kit straight out of the nursery who had yet to grow into his skin — he could fight her off with a viscous desperation, just as she could in return, but it was unlikely he would win. From where he had curled, crouched, on the ground, he snapped his head up to glare at her, and the heat behind it only strengthened as she leaned in. "Nightclan?" He finally breathed out, "do you guys seriously have nothing bet—"
When she sneezed, she was still in his face, and while she stood to look bewildered, he hurriedly brushed off his face in disgust. "Gross!" He cried, taking her distraction as a chance to stand up, and he would have gone further, would have attacked her back, but he could only stand, confused, as she continued to sneeze, and sneeze, and sneeze. Wha—these—these flowers. And then it hit. She was allergic. He burst out laughing, sitting back again due to the sheer force of it, unable to keep himself steady and standing, and it only got louder, more raspy, more entertained, as she continued. When it stopped, he opened his eyes to be greeted by nothing, face falling immediately, the confusion returning.
"What. . .?" He looked around cluelessly. You still up there? For a moment, he didn't respond, padding around aimlessly until he approached the small chasm, peering over until his head was visible over the top. Just when his laughing fit had died down, it started again at the sight of her.
It was loud, utterly gleeful, just like his last fit had been, but it eventually died down with a long, satisfied sigh. He fixed his gaze on her again, and a malicious grin crawled across his face. "How can anyone be so dumb! What, you want help?" He mocked, moving to lay down lavishly, still sneering down at her. "This is hysterical, you're a real riot, stupid, you know that?" He sat up, grin falling, though the malice didn't leave his eyes. "You just tried to kill me. And, I guess it's kind of cool if Nightclan had a bounty on my head — I don't know what I did to you guys, to be honest, considering you barged into our camp to stink the place up and I didn't even say anything. But," he shrugged, "anyway, why would I help you?"
As the tom laughed at her, Sneakysnap growled high in her throat, glaring up at him with her nosebridge pressed against the side of the chasm. Considering you barged into our camp to stink the place up and I didn't even say anything. "Oh, that was you? That tiny, insufferable, ugly little kitten I saw cowering by the nursery? I should'a eaten you, done all your Clanmates a favour." Her voice came out strained; much as she wanted to be more vicious, and much as it filled her with fuming rage, all her effort had to go to her trembling claws imbedding in the flaking soil. She was running out of time. As he just lounged up there above her, the indignant rage bubbled around her chest like fireworks — she didn't explain herself to anyone; she didn't beg anyone; she did what she wanted, or what she was ordered to do. Anyway, why would I help you? The fact she didn't have a good reason terrified her, as much as anything could terrify her. It never occurred to her that SummerClan might be different; in NightClan, any of the other apprentices or young warriors would have let her die. One person out of the way was another rung clear on the ladder up. Even Ratsneer, who she counted as her closest friend, would have let her fall, would have given her a look that was some semblance of apology and looked down over the edge of the chasm as she was swallowed by the rushing black.
"I can help you," she blurted out, her words coming out in a rush — she'd try anything, she had no dignity, no morals, and in NightClan, debts owed were a good place to start. "Anythin' you want, I can do — someone bothering you here? At home? I'll kick their ass. Smother 'em in their sleep." It also never occurred to her that in other Clans, someone irritating you might not be grounds for immediate death, that just saying damn, they piss me off didn't equal I'm gonna order a hit on them. "Or — you want someone to hang out with? I'm great company! Not like other girls, not squeamish. Or — or I'll haunt you! I'll haunt you, and NightClan will come and get you in the dark and take you back to our camp and—god, I don't know!" Her voice suddenly exploded. "Don't help me! I don't care! Dying's better than begging a stinkbug like you!"
Momentarily, the grin faded, replaced with beetle-browed scowl, a slight curl of his lips. "I wasn't in the nursery, idiot. I was already an apprentice!" And then, at the sight of her struggling, Monsterpaw felt the grin creep back, paired with a faint puff of a laugh through his teeth. "And maybe I'll just leave you here to fall, and die, and then I'd be going your clanmates a favour." Looking down at her, he felt almost thrilled — they both knew she was helpless, dependent, that it was him who had final choice over her life, and he had never felt more powerful. It was small, it was cruel, it was simple, but power wasn't something that was so easily achieved by Monsterpaw, and no matter how much he bullied or hurt or scowled, he was always at the bottom. Someone was always more clever, more skilled, more friendly. But here, both physically and metaphorically, he was above her. He was just over a leg-length away from saving her or letting her die, a precarious balance. The feelings it brought forth felt like thick, encompassing shadows, neither kind nor comforting, and it made his heart skip unpleasantly.
I can help you. For a moment, he looked thoughtful, but there was nothing he was really considering — he wouldn't know what to get Sneakysnap to help him with, not with the clan difference, not with his own stubbornness (he didn't need help, he could do anything on his own, he just had to keep trying). Against his worse judgement and in favour of his stupid better judgement, he leaned down, claws digging into the edges of the chasm to ensure he didn't lose his grip, and dug his teeth into her scruff, rougher than he could have. With a muttered "push," spoken around her fur, he pulled up, paws skidding against the ground and sending flecks of dirt and grass falling below.
It took a struggle — Monsterpaw wasn't as strong as he liked to believe, he was small and scrawny and boney, built more for speed than strength — but eventually, they both fell backwards, onto the safety of flat ground. He pushed her away from him, scrambling back up to his paws. His tail lashed, eyes glaring in her direction. "You're welcome," he snapped, offering no explanation as to why. The uncomfortable feeling faded. He regarded her again.
"Alright, I helped you, now you help me. I don't need you to, like, beat anyone up or anything because I can totally do that on my own, but you seem older than me, and more trained, and I want you to teach me some cool moves. My mentor is so slow with getting to the cool stuff, you know? That's what you owe me." He sat back smugly.
“Oh, you’re an apprentice?” Sneakysnap shot back, voice a growling grunt around the exertion it took to stay clinging to the earth. “FIGURES. You look like a delicate little flower — you wouldn’t last an HOUR in NightClan. We’d gobble you up like a toad, slime ass.” At his threat, she just growled, too stubborn to say she was afraid, or to beg. Her instincts warred with her ego.
She was just beginning to slip down — this was it; she closed her eyes, thinking what a miserable end it was, no one even around to see such a cool death, just lost to the earth — when she felt hot breath on the back of her neck, and then his teeth in her scruff. The roughness didn’t bother her; the nursemaid who’d raised her at the end of her kithood had been far rougher. Her scruff was almost numb to the pain of teeth. Her eyes snapped open and she let out a breath, momentarily frozen in disbelief before she finally scrambled to obey, pushing up with any claw that could touch the cliff wall. As soon as she thumped down on top of him, she collapsed and went limp with heavy-bodied, drunken relief; if one thing could be said for NightClan, it was that many of the apprentices were more casually tactile than in other Clans, so used to the close-knit locker room bonds, and she’d dozed in many a pile. But then he was shoving her away and she rolled off, rolling onto her stomach a little way away and lifting her head, every inch of her covered in dust. When he glared down at her, at first she laughed — and then she bared her teeth in a snarl, her mood changing in an explosive second. “No thanks to you,” she snapped back, despite the obvious fact he’d saved her life and she’d be dead without him. “You took your sweet time. I’d rather be dead than owe anything to YOU.” Debts were a strange thing in NightClan — binding if you were the one owed the debt; utterly breakable if you were the one owing. A cat a moon died from a debt turned angry; under Kier’s leadership, no one was very good at dealing with disappointment, with emotion, with being turned down. The smallest affront was cause for a throat torn out. Ego reigned.
As Monsterpaw went on, Sneakysnap pushed herself up, forepaws together where she sat, and glared at him resentfully, ears pinned back. She hated being indebted. At his assertion that he could beat people up, she threw her head back and let out a nasty cackle. But then came the praise, the vague compliments, and she sat up straighter, looking at him smugly. Really, she was only a little older than him; in any other Clan, she would have still been an apprentice. But as it stood, she felt hugely important and hugely worldly. “Is that it?” she laughed. “The widdle baby wants to wearn some cool moves?” Her voice became sneering. “Have you even been out of your stinking flower valley?” But then the grin cut back through the sneer and she sat back again, the smugness returning. “Sure, kid, I can do that.” She didn’t mention that NightClan didn’t exactly train their apprentices, that she didn’t know how to hunt or fight or kill with anything more than instinct; if she was anything, she was a trickster. And if she could corrupt one of SummerClan’s little flower girls even one bit, it’d be the most gleeful thing in the world — one of them, being trained with what she’d seen at trials. Being trained in blood. It was like a perfect joke. “First, though, if I’m gonna be your big, strong mentor, I gotta call you somethin’. Maggot? Wormball? Or you got a name?” She gave a proud little half-smile, all hooded-eyed and smug like a sports star looking at some screaming girl in the stalls. “I’m Sneakysnap. Executioner.” She wasn’t going to say she’d never actually executed someone; the title was cool enough on its own and she flaunted it off any chance she could, handing it out like a card. “Guess you could say I’ve been around the world a couple times. Yeah, seen my fair share of shenanigans. You heard of cat hunts? Yeeeeah… I’m kinda the reigning champ of ‘em.” She gave a mock humble shrug and looked away idly, sniffing.
She had been on one, actually — this scrawny, pathetic white she-cat, more like a rabbit than a predator, had tried to make a break for it in the middle of the day instead of give birth in NightClan and subject her kits to their life, and Sneakysnap had been the one to tackle her. She’d swaggered behind her quarry as she was bundled back to camp, feeling like a Roman general at a triumph, parading into cheers. She hadn’t thought about what any of it meant, hadn’t thought about the mother or the kits or where she had gone; she hadn’t seen her since, though some cats whispered, with such melancholy, broken doubt like they didn’t believe what they were saying, that surely even Kier wouldn’t kill a pregnant she-cat. But anyway, it hadn’t been nearly as fame-inspiring as Leveretpaw’s doomed cat hunt and she was furiously angry about the lack of lasting impact it had made. No one even talked about it anymore. With Monsterpaw, she could be the famous NightClan cat that she wanted to be. That she was going to be. They just didn’t know it yet.
If he were human, his face would have turned a bright, fiery shade of red, embarrassed and infuriated. Still, his face burned. He peered down tauntingly. "Oh," he said, much softer than his anger usually would have let him, and a wicked grin made its way onto his features once more, "speaking of delicate little flowers, didn't you just get your ass kicked by some?" He snorted, "you wouldn't last an hour in Summerclan — you almost didn't, if it weren't for me!" He squared his shoulders, leaned his head back, all impish smugness. Nightclan wasn't something that he particularly cared about at all, and certainly he didn't want to live there, amongst the violent opportunists and the never-ending darkness of their caves, the endless twists and turns. All the things he heard of them — night-stalking monsters, beasts without direction — made him stay as far away as possible, and yet somehow he still felt almost offended at her words, that he wouldn't fit in to a place he didn't even want to step foot in.
Monsterpaw gave a low growl, mixed with a groan, rolling his head back and towards the sky as if Starclan would have an answer for her idiocy. But, as usual, they were silent, judging from their place in the stars. He didn't quite like them much anyway, so it was fine by him. "You are so —" He growled again, as if that was a sufficient explanation, and fell silent, turning his head down again to glare at her as she spoke, so rude and demeaning. He was tempted to push her down the pit again, but he held back (barely, just barely) because, unfortunately, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself, even if Sneakysnap was the most annoying nuisance on the planet. First, though, if I’m gonna be your big, strong mentor, I gotta call you somethin’. He rolled his eyes. "Don't overestimate yourself."
Disregarding the urge to take back his request, he shuffled only a few micro-steps closer, sitting down with hunched shoulders and a regretful look on his face. "Don't call me any of those," he snapped, tail lashing behind him. I’m Sneakysnap. Executioner. When she spoke her name, he tittered quietly; when she spoke of her supposed rank, he fell silent, morbidly curious about the subject but slightly (though he'd never admit it) fearful to ask for more clarification. He blinked warily. Still, she went on, and he found himself listening with wide eyes, teeth poking out from where his mouth sat slightly open — cat hunts, he leaned forward at the word because he hasn't heard of them, and he could only think of all the pieces of prey he's hunted only to brutalize. It was cruel, enthrallingly so. When she finished talking, he found himself silent for a few moments, as if lost in the world she'd described, of hunting your clanmates and desperately climbing to the top of the social latter — there was somewhat of a pull, just out of intrigue, but it all cemented the fact he didn't want to find himself in Nightclan.
"Monsterpaw," he said finally, voice lower, losing its edge. He averted his eyes. The name left a mixed, confusing feeling in his gut — he knew where it had come from, a place of contempt, but it was tough, an image of exactly what he wanted to be, someone strong and untouchable and feared, maybe. Monsters were unapproachable, and he wasn't sure if he would prefer being left alone, just as he had always been, over being forced to open and vulnerable like some classroom dissection. One was too invisible, the other too seen; he couldn't tell which was worse, and perhaps that was where his problems lied. "Let's just get on with it — I don't have all night."
